


Towers

by DestinyWaits



Series: Fireteam Schadenfreude: Herit-Anat [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fireteam Schadenfreude, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWaits/pseuds/DestinyWaits
Summary: Her journey from the Crypt to the Tower.





	

_There is a tower, far away and unreachable._

_It stands alone upon a field, green grass swaying gently against each other. Beyond is a mountain, its jagged teeth cutting into the bleak horizon. Clouds slowly drift across the sky, dancing with the rays of the sun up high._

_There is no wind here._

_Anat stood alone. Held within each hand was a blade. Her left clutched a used shiv, straight-edged and polished. It gleamed innocently under the bright sunlight. In her right was a serrated knife, and its shine cruel and sharp._

_Straight ahead of her were people: nameless faces milling around with shuffling feet and glassy eyes. Everyone that had ever existed and ever will exist were present, waiting for the decision she will take._

_Behind her lay everything that she had made into nothing, and the nothing that created her._

_Glowing blue optics stared ahead at the crowd, metal fingers wrapped tightly around the knives’ hilts. They pulled at her urgently: the shiv longing to sink itself into the flesh of the crowd, the knife longing to sink into **her**. One promised exhilarating power, the other promised the purpose of an eternal life._

_One whispered of freedom. The other whispered of victory. Both whispered of shapes unknown, of her very being contorting into something grander, something **more**._

_The pull of the crowd became louder and louder, the itch to **win** became harder and harder to ignore. A primal need to wreak havoc tugged insistently at her senses, pushing her to kill._

_The need was too strong to resist._

_Anat surrendered to its call._

_It was summer, and the warm blood dripping down her knife felt **right**._

* * *

_There is a tower, crumbling and endless._

_It stands alone upon a field of wilting grass, drooping under the weight of the air. Beyond is a mountain, its jagged tips creating a low whistling sound that echoed throughout the plains. Clouds hung silently in the sky, a grey backdrop for the sun’s soft rays._

_There is no wind here._

_Anat swiped the space in front of her with her blade, instantly felling a man whose hands were held high above his head. She did not know his name, nor his story, but she **did** know the sound of his voice as he pleaded for mercy. Anat watched as his breathing slowed to a halt, eyes slowly dimming as whatever life he had left fled from his body. His face was permanently frozen in a state of fear and a sort of quiet acceptance, as if the hope of escape was never there._

_A strangely familiar sight. It was, in a sense, intimately distant._

_A wisp of a memory poked at the edge of her consciousness. It spoke of the thrill of being an observer, watching blushing faces and stumbling words._

**_I remember, humans found his face aesthetically pleasing._ **

_She regarded his lifeless eyes and paling skin. Blood steadily trickled from his mouth, whispers of a plea still on his lips._

**_I disagree._ **

_With a small whirr of a sigh, Anat knelt down next to the body, cold meeting cold as her metal fingers gently slid his eyelids shut. From her mouth came a quiet sound, not quite human, not fully machine either. Whether it was an apology, or a word of thanks, she did not know. She rose slowly, wiping the shiv against her thigh, adding more to the grime marring her silver frame._

_Behind her were plains of bleeding red and shivering brown and blinding white: Death’s favourite colours._

_Ahead stood an army of chosen dead, their sun-kissed faces turned towards her, the promise of her victory thrumming within their veins._

**_Victory over what?_ **

_Anat did not know the answer, but she trusted that her blade did, and it pushed her to the tower ahead. Its sharpness sang of the tower’s gift of life eternal, of the cornucopia of consciousness found at its peak. Its sheen of blood beguiled Anat into the beauty of the kill, of fulfilling one’s purpose, of the timid truth in taking what little power the weak possess and using it to become worthy of the tower’s gift._

_The sea of the dead was her offering and the killing blade was her key. This, she accepted: the only constant in this world was the kill._

_It was fall, and the crunch of the dead and dying underneath her feet felt sickeningly wonderful._

* * *

_There is a tower, cold and taunting._

_It stands alone upon a field, a fleece of white snow laying softly upon what used to be grass. Beyond is a mountain, its sharp tips blending into the stark white sky. Clouds hovered invisibly around the tower’s middle, as if daring to touch the ground._

_There is no wind here._

_Anat cursed as she was, yet again, smacked by a warm fleshy hand. The faceless person writhing beneath her annoyed her, with their incessant screeching and repetitive attempts to stop her blade from reaching their throat._

_The whisperings of the tower were turning impatient, and so was she. Months of traveling and killing had passed and it seemed like she was nowhere even **close** to setting foot upon the tower base._

_A part of her wondered if she would ever reach her goal, if she will ever be good enough for the tower’s gift. What if she lost the tower’s favour? What then? Would she just be mindlessly wandering this endless field with the sight of the tower taunting her?_

_Another smack upon her face._

_**Ki ~~lL~!~~** _

_With a frustrated growl of her grinding gears, she stabbed the body once, then two more times, three more, and so on and so on. The killing blade cried out in ecstasy, relishing in its offering. The tower murmured its approval, a feeling of fullness within her head._

_Anat ignored the quiet screams of the neglected blade strapped to her thigh, the one that begged her to stop, the one that called the tower a building of lies and insanity. The call of the tower was still stronger, mercilessly overtaking the lying blade. It was an honest voice coaxing to bring her blade to the heart of the crowd, to ** ~~~consume~~~** devour their essence, to **~~~enhance~~~** amplify her own power._

_**~~~Replicate~~~** Recreate the success of the logic of the blade, repeat the cycle and earn a lifetime for every one taken away. Obedience to its words will bring power to undo what has been done, to atone for what has been taken. The blade of the tower told her of all of this, and the tower is the only standing truth within the land of those who seek. The tower is the end and the beginning, the place where Anat will die and Anat will be reborn._

_The tower must be everything, so she will not be **nothing**._

_Anat struck the body one last time, one final death scream echoing throughout the field. Blood seeped into the snow, creeping outwards to infect the rest of the white blanket. With trembling hands, Anat slid the person’s eyelids shut, before she quickly scooted away, as if she had been burnt by their flesh. She could not take her eyes away from the crimson spreading everywhere._

**_A child._ **

_For the first time in the eternity she had spent fighting for the tower, she felt disgust. It felt foreign and irksome._

_**The routine.** _

_The gears within her throat and the fans underneath her vents worked in tandem, creating a symphony of hums and clicks and whirrs, untranslatable to anyone but her kind, but still carrying the same weight of feeling as the timbre of an organic voice. It was genuine and real._

_But it did nothing to rid the sickened pit within her._

_Refusing to stare at the red mess anymore, Anat rose abruptly, briskly walking away from the body. The crooning praise of the blade prickled at the edge of her senses. Once a source of guidance and strength, it now made her feel weak. The tower- her drive, her **everything** \- now seemed nothing more than a lie, a ploy to transform her into being nothing but what the tower wanted._

**_This is exactly like those damned scientists at Clovis._ **

_Anat trudged across the field once more, her killing blade unsheathed and freshly used. A trail of dark red followed her: a mark left with every single step. It was as if she was an ant, merely nothing but a small blip marching in line with all the other ants, feet mindlessly pounding against the earth towards the home of the swarm._

**_Is this all that I’m meant for?_ **

_It was winter, and she felt so very cold._

* * *

_There is a tower, cracked and made out of living stone._

_It stands alone upon a field, tall green grass swaying like seaweed in a tank full of water. Beyond is a mountain, remnants of snow trickling down its slopes. Clouds drift lazily across the light sky, pink from the touch of the sun._

_There is no wind here._

_Arms stretched, Anat lay quietly on the grass, watching the graceful dance of the sky. To her left was a shiv, a gently used blade dripping crimson liquid onto the ground it lay on. Clutched in her right hand was another knife, this one clean and serrated._

_Close behind her lay the remains of those long-dead. Scattered bodies, their hands reached out to a saviour that turned on them. Blood seeped into the earth, staining the grass they lay on._

_Far ahead stood an army, waiting for their second death._

_Anat hummed to herself, a nameless tune from a time before her own, as she picked up the used knife. Her fingers glinted as she held up the blade under the sunlight. It was stained crimson, whispers of pleas still lingering on the metal surface._

_**Stealing other’s lives to gain my own.** _

_She forced out a hiss of air, a sneering whirr formed from the fluttering of her fans._

_**How pathetic.** _

_Anat fought the urge to toss the knife away in disgust, returning it to its sheath instead. The leather silenced the whispers just enough for her to think clearly._

_She picked up the clean knife and rose. Ahead, the army waited._

_However, instead of marching forward, she turned around and walked back towards the freshly-red fields._

_The first body she reached was a woman’s, wearing a stained white coat and glassy eyes. A name tag was clipped onto her chest, but here, the dead have no names. Anat knelt down and gently closed the woman’s eyelids, making a sound that only killing machines could create. She rose, again facing the crowd ahead._

_Kneel. Apologize. Stand. Leave. Anat knew this procedure by heart._

_**I am tired.** _

_The serrated knife she held beckoned her, offering an escape. It was a gentle nudge, a suggestion for her to sink it in the middle of her chest. A way to waste all efforts that the tower and the killing blade invested into her. Tempting revenge._

_Anat brought the tip of the knife right above where her heart would be, had she been born in another life. She pressed down slowly. The killing blade, once quiet, began screaming in protest, a screech of anger bouncing within her mind. It tore at her, gnashed and fought against the knife’s plight towards her core, and the knife fired back, a low menacing rumble of threats and frustration. Her grip tightened as her hand shook violently, the two voices within her head bursting at the seams._

_**Too much!** _

_Jaw tightened, Anat drew the killing blade and stabbed the ground with both knives, instantly silencing the voices vying for her control. She fell to her knees, curling into herself as her frame trembled underneath the weight of the blades’ silence. The absence of a voice looping within her head felt wrong, unnatural and terrifying. Her mind grasped for something, **anything** to ground her to this reality._

_Something else tugged at her then, an unfamiliar presence tickling the edge of her senses. Unlike the feeling of fullness that the blades commanded, this one held no weight, but contained a dormant power. It had no voice, yet she heard the order in its echo: **look down.**_

_And so she did._

_In place of the blades was a flower, soft creamy petals shining in the sun, standing proudly amidst the rusted lands. Its leaves were a deep vivid green, acting as a trampoline for the sunlight shining from above. Above its yellow center hovered a small, glowing, turquoise sphere- from which the voice originated._

_**Bellis Perennis. A daisy.** _

_Anat leaned in closer to the flower, the presence within her mind compelling her to **look**. Look at the soft white petals and be reminded of red snow and a cloudy sky. Look at the yellow center and be reminded of the neverending war between the sun and the moon. Look at the red earth and roots dug deep into the soil and be reminded of crushed leaves and green grass._

_Look and remember and **choose**. Choose to be consumed by the tower’s calling power, or choose to consume the tower itself and create a home out of the carcass it leaves behind._

_**Choose the one that results in the Anat that was meant to be.** _

_The voice waned into nothingness, and she was left with the silence within her mind, and a choice to make._

_It was spring, and it is the blossoming of a flower that set her free._

* * *

There is a Tower, mighty and tall.

It stands alone in the junction between two walls. Beyond are mountains, its tips being kissed by white clouds and hints of snow. The sun is high and the air is cool and alive with the scent of freshly bloomed flowers and dewy grass.

Anat stared at the building with a hint of uneasiness, memories of another tower from another time crooning at the edges of her mind. Slung over her shoulder was a rifle, pinning her tattered cloak against her back. Mot hovered besides her, turquoise optic watching her curiously, yet said nothing to her Guardian.

Ahead were the gates to the Tower, steel bars shining and guarded by two Titans, helmets trained to a point far away. A stance all too familiar to her.

Behind her were the sun-kissed faces of the City’s inhabitants, milling about in the pavilion, reminding her of lifeless eyes and silent pleas.

“Are you ready?”

Echoes of the calls of the tower’s blades bounced within her mind, murmurs of offerings and wishes taking her back to red-soaked fields.

“Never.”

It was spring, and Anat moved forward, the image of a flower running through her mind as she walked towards the Tower of her dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> (I threw a bunch of somewhat-related lore references in there that may or may not have made sense blep)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
